


love made in the summer

by rodrikstark



Category: Little Women (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Little Women, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, Love Confessions, Marvel x Little Women, Mention of Death of a Parent, Steve Rogers Feels, emotional cheating, little women au, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29931777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodrikstark/pseuds/rodrikstark
Summary: steve wishes for freedom. with you... it seems within his reach.
Relationships: Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	love made in the summer

**Author's Note:**

> i watch amy/laurie scenes from little women (2019) whenever i want to Feel Something™, so here’s a fic inspired by them <3
> 
> despite being a period piece, i sincerely hope all my fellow WOC feel free & encouraged to read. i never write fics assuming a white reader. title from “all my friends” (dermot kennedy).

Out of the corner of your eye you watch as Steve pulls his small stub of charcoal down the length of his paper, making a bold stroke. You keep your face turned towards the novel in your hand but notice how the warm wind of late summer rustles the corners of his sketchbook pages. Without looking up—in fact, appearing to concentrate even harder on his piece—Steve mumbles, “I received a letter from my mother yesterday.”

You anticipate an interesting conversation. “Oh?” With your thumb, you mark the paragraph you had just finished reading and partially close your book. 

Staring at the sketch in front of him, he rolls the charcoal between his already-blackened fingers, thoughtful as his eyes travel over the curves he has carved onto the page. “She wishes for me to marry Peggy.”

You hum lightly. “And is this supposed to come as a surprise?”

“No,” he says, glancing at you for a moment before returning to his work. 

You sense his desire to say more on the topic by the way he furrows his brow, idly shading and smudging the artwork. He tends to reserve this amount of concentration when painting on canvas in his studio, not when simply practicing in his sketchbook next to you on a late Sunday morning.

You had befriended Peggy Carter the day she became a new student at your elementary school, jumping to her immediate defense when your fellow classmates poked fun at her silly-sounding British accent. Throughout the rest of your childhood, you two have posed a singular, unstoppable force.

You considered your friendship with Peggy the greatest gift of your life. Together, you traded toys, perfected your baking skills, and dreamed of your grand futures.

Only one person ever acted as a significant wedge in your relationship. For the majority of your childhood, the rowdy neighborhood boy Steven Rogers left you both alone. However, as soon as he reached his teenage years, all at once realizing how much he liked Peggy constantly challenging him in the schoolyard, he began flirting with her. Shamelessly.

In some ways, he made your bond stronger. You both teased his over-eagerness, giggled at the absurd things he would do to get Peggy’s attention. Yet, other times, you resented how audaciously he inserted himself into your once-dignified lives, getting paint on your skirts and poking fun at the womanly hobbies you enjoyed.

Nine months ago, Peggy wrote you a letter detailing how she at long last relented to his American charm, allowing him to court her. Five months after that, Steve interrupted their blissful, young romance by travelling to Paris to pursue his art career.

Paris, where you had worked for the past two years, teaching at an international school.

“I don’t think I will ever marry her,” he mutters softly, scratching away at a detail.

You reach for your paper bookmark, tucked under the skirt of your dress, then drop it into the open spine of your book, which you shut with a firm tap. “Why?”

“I don’t think I’m capable.”

“Of marriage?” you ask sharply. “Or of marrying Peggy?”

“Of marriage,” he answers gently. He has an ankle propped up on his knee, using his calf and thigh to support his sketchbook at his preferred angle. With a sigh, he drops his leg onto your balcony with a thud, tossing the sketchbook onto the small metal table in front of him. You manage to glimpse his drawing: a male figure, folded into himself. 

“Why not?” You fail to suppress the meanness you feel toward him. “Is it because you’re a scoundrel?”

Steve scoffs, launching off his chair to walk inside the apartment, grabbing a rag from the kitchen to wipe his stained hand. “It’s because I’m an artist.”

“Right,” you call after him, opening your book again to feign nonchalance. “An artist,” you repeat, disbelieving.

He leans his body half-outside, bracing himself on the partition. “Or at least trying to be one.” He throws his rag on his shoulder, crossing his arms. “I’m not meant to raise children and look after a wife. I should tour international countrysides, sketch the world’s wonders.” He gestures broadly, towards the Parisian streets.

You blink down at the meaningless letters in the book in front of you, haven’t having read a word since picking it up. You run a finger down the edge of a single page, threatening to give yourself a papercut. You confess, “She loves you, Steven.” 

His arms drop to his side, and he stares at you. “What?”

This confession is new information to Steve. You know this, because you only found out recently as well. In the last letter she wrote you, Peggy fervently described how deeply she loves him, even while separated by thousands of miles. Her silly childhood crush, turned into something real. 

“She told me so herself.”

You should not have disclosed Peggy’s private feelings. But you have hated keeping these secrets from him, letting them fester in your heart.

After a moment, Steve exhales heavily. He sits back down on his chair, elbows on his knees. “And a part of me loves her as well. But I cannot tie myself to her for the rest of my life.” He studies you, blue eyes shining with hope. “I should be free, like you.”

You chuckle, tasting bitterness in your mouth. “I’m hardly free.” You shut your book sharply now, placing it on the table, hard enough that you jostle the delicate tea cups which have grown cold. You pull aimlessly at the skirt of your dress.

“You could go anywhere you wanted,” he insists, leaning back in his chair.

You roll your eyes at his simplistic view of your life. “With the money I inherited after my father’s death, perhaps. But I am not free, Steven. I can’t roam the earth, searching for inspiration like you desire to do. I’m a woman.” 

Steve tilts his head. “So?”

“So, women cannot simply walk where they please.” Sometimes, you marvel at how he still manages to act like a child, and believe in childish things. “There’s danger at every turn,” you say, though without conviction. 

“Danger,” he reiterates with a small laugh, unconvinced.

“Men, mostly,” you explain. “I am no more free than you.”

He lets a long silence linger. The tension between you dissipates as he turns his head, scanning the streets and listening to the quiet bustle of the _arrondissement_. You are tempted to pick up your book again, imagining the conversation could end there.

“I could go with you,” he offers.

Your heart flutters for a second. “Where?”

“Wherever you go.” He rubs thoughtfully at the charcoal still staining his fingertips. 

You stand up, leaving the sunkissed warmth of the balcony for the coolness of your apartment. You refuse to respond to that folly.

“I would protect you,” he adds hastily, following after you.

You press your lips into a firm line, shaking your head. “You have a duty to her.” 

“What duty?” he questions. “We’re not even engaged, it’s just what our mothers want.”

You spin to face him, pointing a stern finger at his chest that makes his steps falter. “You have a duty to love her,” you declare.

He frowns deeply at your claim. “And for that duty I have to give up my love for art?”

You push at his arm when he tries to reach for your hand. “You are not giving it up, Steven. I know you, you can find beauty in anything. A tree in the park, or a… _bookstore_.” You wave your hand over your kitchen, where he has scattered several of his loose sketches, the result of his carelessness every time he visited your home. One by one, you grab the stiff pieces of paper, arranging them into a neat pile.

Steve protests, “I don’t want to find beauty. I don’t want to just… happen upon it.” He sighs, his exasperation weighing on him. “I want to seek it out.”

You thrust the papers into his hands. “You’re a narrow-minded fool,” you tell him bitingly.

Steve looks down at his sketches, a sad look gradually twisting his face. The sharp decline in his energy and mood catches your attention. He murmurs, “That’s rude of you to say.”

“It’s the truth,” you continue. With a forcibly level voice, you attempt to maintain your authority, too vexed by his earlier comments against marrying Peggy to offer him sympathy for whatever sadness plagues him. “If you think escaping France is going to fix your problems—”

“My problems?” He squints his eyes at you, bitter.

“Your drinking!” you start, your voice raising. “Your propensity for recklessness and disobedience, your regular acting like an arrogant fool, your—”

“Are you done?” he snaps.

“Excuse me?” 

“Are you done criticizing my life?” Steve repeats, anger reddening his face now. “The only reason my mother wants me to marry Peggy is because she feels indebted to the Carters for taking care of her when was ill. Of all people, _you_ should know that.” Infuriated, he continues, “Maybe I am wrong, but I like to think that my mother has done more than enough for that family.” 

He thrusts his hand in a vague direction, and you imagine that he gestures directly towards Peggy’s stately home thousands of miles away, in America, where she sits waiting for him to come home. 

Steve fumes, “She has taught Peggy how to sew, cooked them warm meals and cleaned their home, even given their irritating grandchildren piano lessons. Why is there more to give? And more importantly, why should I be the one being given?” He lets the sketches drop on your dining table, the movement causing a couple to float calmly to the ground. “It is unfair—”

“Do you love Peggy, or don’t you?” A dull pressure grasps the middle of your chest, constricting it so your words come out small. 

“What?” He barely heard you over his shouting.

Anxiously and quickly, you bend at the knee to pick up the sheets and put them back in the stack, surreptitiously wiping at your eyes in the process. You clear your throat.

Standing straight, resolute, you remind him: “Before, you said _a part of you_ loves Peggy. I believe you either love her or you don’t.”

Steve hesitates, only for a second. “I love her, but—”

“Then marry her,” you interject firmly. “She would make a good wife and an even better mother. Her family’s money would support your career.” Your jaw clenches. “She is stronger than you in every regard, that we both know. Most of all, she would make you happy.”

He inhales slowly, his temper tantrum dissolving before your eyes. “Do you really think I would be happy?” he asks, pained. 

“Yes,” you say through gritted teeth.

His sorrowful gaze leaves you, now directed toward the loose pile of his artwork. A finger reaches out to stroke the paper sitting on top.

“Have _you_ ever loved me?” he asks softly.

Against your will, your fondest memories of Steve rise to your thoughts in this moment. All of them excluding Peggy, you realize guiltily, despite her entanglement in both of your lives. 

The day you fell ill as a teenager, so feverish you could hardly open your eyes, and he sat by your bedside to read your book aloud for you. The sorrowful way he said goodbye to you when you departed for France, and the joy on his face after arriving here on his own, pulling you into a long-awaited embrace. How he charmed all your young students when he visited your class, reminding them to respect their teacher. 

His warm laughter on your small trip to Italy earlier last month, golden hair reflecting the sun’s rays. 

Stolen glances in the darkness of the opera theater. 

Slowly, Steve separates the top sketch from the others and lays it before you on the dining room table.

A portrait. The black streaks of charcoal somehow depict the sunniest day of spring, when you sat on a park bench to rest and Steve pleaded for you to hold still for a moment, so he could capture you, your smile and the way your light cotton dress tangled with the wind.

Have you ever loved him? You cannot bear to lie about this.

“I will not answer that,” you respond. “You know I won’t answer that.” You refuse to look into his blue eyes. “Leave.”

“I love you,” he starts. “I’ve loved you—”

_“Leave,”_ you beg. “Steve, please.”

A weighty sigh escapes him. You steady your breathing as he mopes around your apartment, gathering his book and his papers and his charcoal. You brace your hands on your table, resolutely fixing your eyes on the sketch before you, and half expect him to take that away, too. 

“Would you keep it for me?” he asks, his voice barely above a mumble as he lays a gentle hand, not much more than his fingertips, at the small of your waist, a touch that burns all the way down to your spine. 

You should tear it to shreds. But you nod slowly, standing completely still until you hear the door shut behind him. Then, you step towards your balcony, shutting the partition so you can sit alone in the cool darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on tumblr! @rodrikstark


End file.
